mouth but no words coming out. There, the couch where he watched
the family dog die, wondering why if his life was seven times
accelerated did his death have to be so protracted. Here, the piano
where his father played brilliantly and without flaw the only piece he
ever knew, something brutal and glorious by Wagner. And there, on
the coffee table, a varnished box containing scarred instruments of
death and great beauty.
“The guns,” Colin said, cast about in a fuddling torment. It was
all tiding back too fast.
“Aha!” Heck said. He took the box in his big hands, easily broke
the lock and set to work cleaning the pistols. All the while Colin stood
back and watched.
“That should do it,” Sprout said.
“Not quite,” Colin said, snatching the guns from her, testing their
heft.
“What are you doing, Colin?” Sprout said.
“Making sure everything’s balanced,” he answered as he stuffed
antique bullets into the chambers.
“Are you stupid, man?” Izzy complained. “Now your fingerprints
are all over it.”
But Colin didn’t answer. He strode broadly across the room and
began climbing the stairs that led to his father’s sleeping chambers.
“Colin, stop!” Sprout said both as forcefully and quietly as she
could. But he was too fast. He moved now with an uncharacteristic
grace, heavy footfalls betraying no sound. The others tried to catch
up to him but they could not. Reaching the top of the stairs they
found that he had disappeared among the many corridors and
switchbacks of the opulent structure. They all separated and tried to
find him before he committed something Hellenic and lame.
Colin crept along the wall that led to the master bedroom. He
breathed heavily and hungrily, grips tightening around the high
Russian art. It was as if he was turning inside-out. This was a dream.
This was not a dream.
There had been times when he awoke frantic with the funk of
gunpowder full across his exploding eyes. This was only a backward
echo of that, an turgid momentum playing out in multiple
dimensions. The open doorway approached yet again. He was not
walking now, only sweeping effortlessly towards that destiny. Fully
automatic. Wrapped in lead. So fast and heavy.
He turned to enter the room, raising the gun towards the bed.
ABYSSINIA
304
 |
 |
 |
 |